“I know what literature means, Mr. Wind, it is books,” announced a bright butterfly who had just arrived on the scene.
“Are you sure?” questioned the fish doubtfully.
“Yes; of course I am. I went with a big pinch-bug one day into a great room full of books, and he said, when he saw the shelves and shelves full of them, ‘My! what a lot of literature!’”
The committee looked convinced, but now came the question of books,—Where should they get them? How could they lecture on books, when they knew nothing about them?
“We must just send word around to all the flowers and birds and trees and everything, to see who can lecture on books, and we must all keep our eyes and ears open,” said a buttercup bud.
“We shall have to lay that on the table for the present,” said the wind.
“But we haven’t any table,” chattered a squirrel.
“A well brought-up squirrel should know better than to interrupt. We shall have to put this aside, then, until we can learn more about it. In the meantime, let us proceed with the next word on the list, poetry.”
“I know,” said the brook. “A bit of paper lay upon my bank, miles and miles away from here, too high up for me to reach, but I could read it. It said, ‘For poetry is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge.’ And I have said it over and over all the way here.”
“Ah! the flowers shall give us poetry,” said the good old wind.